two days, and peat, to dry within the house,
for fuel. Willy engaged to nurse the baby,
while Sally looked to the cow. Their mother
promised the little ones some nice things for
the winter, if they were good while she was
gone; and their father kissed them all, and
said he knew they would be good.

And so they were, all that first day; and a
very good dinner they made, after playing
about the whole morning; and they all went
instantly to sleep at night, while Sally sat
knitting for an hour longer by the dim red
light of the peat fire. The next day was not
so fine. The mountain ridges were clear;
but the sky was full of very heavy grey
clouds; and before dinner, at noon, there
was some snow falling. It came on thicker
and thicker; and the younger children began
to grow cross, because they could not go out
to play, and did not know what to do with
themselves. Sally cheered them with talking
about how soon mother would come home.
Mother had not come, however, when the
little things, worried and tired, went to bed.
Nor had she come, hours after, when Sally
herself wanted very much to be asleep. She
had looked out at the door very often, and
it was still snowing; and the last time, such
a cloud of snow was driven against her face,
that it was a settled matter in her mind at
once that father and mother would not be
home to-night. They would stay in the vale
for daylight, and come up to breakfast. So
she put on another peat, to keep in the fire,
and went to bed.

In the morning, it seemed dark when baby
cried to get up; and well it might; for the
window was blocked up with snow, almost to
the very top. When the door was opened, a
mass of snow fell in, though what remained
was up to Willy's shoulders. The first thing
to be done was to get to the cow, to give her
her breakfast, and bring baby's. So Sally
laid on her last dry peat, and filled the kettle;
and then she and Willy set to work to clear
a way to the cow. They were obliged to
leave baby to the little ones; and it took an
hour to cross the yard. Willy was to have
brought in some fuel; but the peat-stack was
at the end of the house, and, as they could
see, so completely buried in snow as to be
hopelessly out of reach. Here was the milk,
however, and there was a little of the oatmeal
left, and some potatoes. Sally wished
now they had brought in more from the
barn; but who could have thought they
would want any more? Father would get
them presently, when he came.

But nobody came all that day. Late at
night, all the children but Sally were asleep
at last, though they had been too cold and too
hungry to go to rest quietly, as usual. The
fire had been out since noon; and the last cold
potatoes had been eaten in the afternoon.
Sally was lying with the baby cuddled close
to her for warmth: and, at last, she fell
asleep too, though she was very unhappy.
In the morning, she felt that their affairs
were desperate. Willy must get down the
mountain, be the snow what it might, and
tell somebody what state they were in; for
now, there was no more food for the cow
within reach, and she gave very little milk
this morning; and there was nothing else.
It had not snowed for some hours; and
Willy knew the way so well that he got
down to the valley, being wet to the neck,
and having had a good many falls by the
way. At the first farm-house he got help
directly. The good woman took one of the
labourers with her, with food, and a basket of
dry peat, and a promise to clear the way to the
oat-straw and hay, for the relief of the cow.
The farmer set off to consult the neighbours
about where Raven and his wife could be;
and the rest of the family dried the boy's
clothes, and gave him a good bowl of porridge.

In a very short time, all the men in the
valley, and their dogs, were out on the snow,
their figures showing like moving specks on
the white expanse. Two of them, who had
been at the sale, knew that Raven and his
wife had set out for home, long before dark
on the second day. Raven was, as might be
expected, the worse for liquor; but not so
much so but that he could walk, with his
wife to keep him in the path. They might
possibly have turned back; but it was too
probable that they were lost. Before night,
it was ascertained that they had not been
seen again in Langdale; and in two days more,
during which the whole population was
occupied in the search, or in taking care of the
children, their fate was known. Raven's
body was found, a little way from the track,
looking like a man in a drunken sleep. Some
hours after, the barking of a dog brought
the searchers to where Janet was lying, at
the foot of a precipice, about thirty feet deep.
Her death must have been immediate. It
seemed that her husband, overcome by the
effect of the cold (which, however, had not
been excessive) on his tipsy brain, had fallen
down in sleep or a stupor; and that Janet,
unable to rouse him, had attempted to find
her way back; and, by going three or four
yards aside from the path, in the uniformity
of the snow, had stepped over the rock. There
was a strange and ghastly correspondence
between the last day of her married life and
the first; and so thought her old friend and
bridesmaid, Sally, who came over to the
funeral, and who, in turning over the poor
remnants of Janet's wardrobe, found the bunches
of orange flowers carefully papered up, and
put away in the furthest corner of a drawer.

There was nothing left for the children,
but the warning of their father's life, and the
memory of their mother's trials. They were
not allowed to go upon the parish— not even
Dan. It was plain that he would not live
very long; and neighbourly charity was sure
to last as long as he. The others were
dispersed among the farms in that and the